


The Walls Affair

by Cynara



Series: An Affair to Remember [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynara/pseuds/Cynara





	The Walls Affair

Illya exited Medical, glad to be quit of the place. It was bad enough while unsound of life and limb. Of course, he had self-administered Capsule G, and then been lost to U.N.C.L.E. for months. As far as he could tell, he'd now fully recovered. It was difficult to know, when everything that had been missing was a secret.

Illya wished he still had an apartment. Mr. Waverly had agreed U.N.C.L.E. could save on his rent while he was in Medical plus the balance of the month. An agreement made with Napoleon, who'd volunteered to host his returned partner, without asking _him_. Illya knew this would stretch out into several months, as he'd never get a chance to look at new places in time for the next month and was unlikely to manage for the month after that.

As if U.N.C.L.E. hadn't saved five months rent and recouped a trained agent. He knew what he was worth. Illya acknowledged he didn't want to stay in HQ, even if it meant going home to Napoleon. His partner had left him with the circus until an affair developed that he couldn't handle alone.

As he had remembered, he'd been a bit surprised Napoleon had retrieved him. His choices had made sense at the time. Most of them still made sense. He had also regained his memories of being Nickie. Would Nickie get him killed? No. Nickie was him, without his memories. Without his hang-ups, but with his reason. He knew how and why he bore scars that had made no sense. He wasn't Nickie anymore.

He understood why Napoleon had left him in the cold. It was the same reason Napoleon had never called him on his high-handed ways. Love. Illya was staggered. He focused on his environment as he left the building.

Even with full deployment of spycraft, he arrived at Napoleon's penthouse too soon. The door opened quickly as he knocked, and he strode inside while his partner rearmed the alarm. He looked everywhere but at his partner.

"Everything back?" The nonchalant delivery was brittle. Napoleon looked him over.

Illya stepped closer, arms wrapping around Napoleon as he was clutched close. He nuzzled the side of Napoleon's head. It was fortunate he'd not been battered during the last affair; it wouldn't have mattered. He held on, ignoring the bite of Napoleon's gun against his arm, his own against his chest. He pulled his head back to try to look at his lover.

Napoleon loosened his hold.

Illya bussed him hard before stepping away so he could see Napoleon's face.

"Vanity." Napoleon's smile reached his eyes.

Illya pulled out his glasses and jammed them on before stepping closer, kissing Napoleon, slower this time. They broke for air, sped by Napoleon's laughing. Illya wasn't amused.

"No greater compliment. You'll turn my head." Napoleon stroked Illya's neck just below one earpiece. His smile widened as Illya relented, forgiving Napoleon's mirth. He'd never reveal just how Illya's glasses affected him. Illya would kill him, 'cute' being the harshest four-letter word. He kissed Illya's forehead, then his lips before they could complain at the liberty. With difficulty he pulled back.

"Still mad at me?" He restrained his smile while Illya faced the bald statement.

"There's a certain sense." Illya's lips were held in an incipient quirk.

Napoleon squeezed his partner's hand. "Put a record on, I'll start supper." He headed into the kitchen. There were some things too private even for him to see.

"You have lousy taste." Illya knelt down to look at the records, hoping Napoleon's music had improved. He'd worked to the far end, and sat down. He flipped through the last albums. They were all there, his record collection. There were even a few 'new' jazz records, other albums by artists he especially liked. Once he had his hands steady enough, he slipped one from its sleeve and set it onto the turntable. He turned the sound low, knowing Napoleon didn't much care for his music.

Unlike Lot's wife, Napoleon stayed focused ahead as the music started. His love was no Ice Prince; incendiary was closer. Personal Molotov. They were playing with fire to share quarters. He'd have to let Illya leave. Napoleon considered which of the girls could be finessed so Illya's next apartment was better.

"You're planning something." Illya walked in, looked into the saucepan, and smiled. He got out the plates, then the glasses and cutlery.

"Always." Just like how his plates were stored at the top of Illya's comfortable reach. Soon the meal was ready and they tucked into dinner. It was a companionable silence they shared, they and the soft music. It continued into their post-prandial coffees on the couch, Illya's glasses once more gone.

Napoleon sat his cup down and placed his hand on Illya's knee. His questioning smile widened as Illya sat his free hand over Napoleon's. Napoleon retrieved his coffee.

"I've put your things in the guestroom, but would you spend the night with me?" Napoleon sipped the last of his cup.

Illya waited as the moment dragged, then set aside his cup and disarmed Napoleon of his, flowing over him. Illya pulled his head back only after his wrists were held in his lover's hand.

"Bedroom." Napoleon released his grip as he saw the agreement in Illya's eyes. Each did their best to disguise their 'inconveniences' to walking. Illya led, and started to strip as he reached the bedroom. Napoleon leaned against the doorframe. Blue eyes licked at him and he shed his clothes, sweeping Illya onto the bed. There was little finesse, just lithe athleticism and controlled strength as the blankets were pushed out of the way and they rutted.

Finished, panting for breath, Napoleon looked down at his precise partner sprawled wantonly, before taking Illya into his arms and rolling onto his back. He held on tight as his love tried to slide to one side. "Humor me."

"I humor you and you'll be insufferable." Illya did change his motions into sprawling more comfortably, for him.

Napoleon corrected the more egregious boney joints against sensitive places, teasing as he did so. He pulled the blankets over them, and stroked his hands along Illya's back, over his butt, down his thighs. He nuzzled the side of Illya's head as he drifted into sleep.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"May I?" Illya looked down at Napoleon. They'd buoyed up out of sleep, groins rocking together. Illya wanted more, and gripped Napoleon's buttocks.

Napoleon grinned and started to roll over.

Illya stilled him. "Like this." He swallowed as Napoleon spread his arms in a sign of carte blanche. Illya stretched over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. Jar in hand he pushed the drawer back in and slipped back over Napoleon.

Napoleon pulled Illya's head down and kissed him firmly and slowly. Illya let himself sag against his lover, carding one hand into Napoleon's hair, while the other unscrewed the lid. He swirled a finger into the jelly as their kiss deepened, then moved his slicked finger to his lover's hole.

Once Illya had Napoleon readied he pressed against him, slowly sank into Napoleon, watching his lover's face. In root deep, he stretched down to kiss Napoleon's mouth, barely pulling back and sliding forward.

Napoleon shifted, trying to egg on his partner. He gasped as his thighs were caught in the crooks of Illya's arms, pulling his ass up from the bed. Napoleon arched as Illya's strokes lengthened. He kept watching his lover as best he could.

Illya wanted his lover's mouth again, wanted to lick his mole and ridiculous chin cleft. He moved Napoleon's knees over his shoulders and bent forward slowly. Illya moaned as his lover grabbed his head and levered up to kiss him. Illya's hips sped, and he leaned back, clutching Napoleon's thighs. Napoleon's hands found his arms and then all Illya's awareness was coming. He didn't feel the hot, wet splatters against his face and chest.

Napoleon eased Illya down beside him. Slowly he really observed his partner. He swiped a finger under Illya's eye, starting to clean his face. He gasped as Illya bit him, then sucked on the captured digit. Tentatively, Napoleon wiped his other hand over Illya's cheek. His love lapped at it.

Napoleon cut in with his mouth, kissing Illya slow and deep. He kept cleaning Illya's face, Illya breaking the kiss for his hands, Napoleon using his mouth and Illya sucking on his tongue. Napoleon pressed a finger between their mouths and between his partner's lips. He tipped Illya onto his back and lay half-slung across him, stroking Illya's hair lazily.

Illya rolled from under Napoleon's arm and out of bed. Napoleon sat up, protest clear in his eyes. Illya explained, "I'll sleep with you, after a shower." He padded into the bathroom, not itching at his chest. Napoleon followed quickly, picking up his Walther from his puddle of clothes. He sat it on the tank, took care of business, smiling as he looked at the shower door. Lowering the lid, he quickly washed his hands with cold water and moved across the room.

"Scrub my back."

Napoleon slid into his shower, pulling Illya back against his chest. His right hand slipped low.

"That's not my back." Illya's heel found Napoleon's instep, resting against it with faint pressure.

Napoleon finished his lingering wash of Illya's cock before sudsing up a washcloth and applying it to Illya's back. Vigorously. He continued down Illya's legs.

Illya turned, raising and pinning Napoleon to the end of the shower, one hand thrust out to protect his partner's head. He latched onto Napoleon's neck just to one side of where his tieknot would hit. He pulled Napoleon forward, and slipped behind to give his partner a quick scrub. Illya turned off the water after a mutual rinse.

"Change the sheets or switch beds?" Illya looked at his partner.

"Five minutes." No sense being winded from changing the sheets, when they'd need that wind messing them up again. Three and a half minutes was his personal best. Napoleon toweled off quickly and exited the moist room, taking his Special.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They awoke, each with one eye regarding the other. Napoleon smiled first, and Illya followed suit.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Napoleon knew if he wasn't careful he'd never want to leave bed, and promising food was a good way for Illya to motivate him.

"Pancakes?" Illya got up and headed into the bathroom.

Napoleon got up and pulled on boxers and trousers before heading into his kitchen. He still had to go into the office, though Illya did not. Actually, Illya was under orders not to come into the office. Medical somehow was leery of seeing his partner so soon after any extended acquaintance. Napoleon expected this had to do with Illya shedding his jacket within HQ, his holster and Walther displayed.

He had the batter made and was stacking the first of the pancakes when Illya appeared, fresh shaven, holster over a turtleneck. Napoleon poured another set while he found his control, flipped them over and then flippered them onto the plate. "Take over?"

Illya nodded.

Napoleon shaved, pulled on an undershirt and shrugged into a shirt and came back out, not yet ready to don the holster he held in his hand. "Brat." His partner was sitting at the table, eating his stack of pancakes. Napoleon slipped again in front of the stove, turning it back on.

Illya proffered a forkful. Napoleon took the mouthful. "Sit down and eat." He'd never leave if they went down this path. Quickly he created enough pancakes, half the number Illya had started with, and took his seat. They ate quietly, companionably. Napoleon looked at the time. "Illya, could you put the batter into a Tupperware?"

Illya nodded and Napoleon stood, buttoning his shirt and slipped into his harness. He went into the bedroom to retrieve his suitcoat. Then he was gone.

Illya armed the security alarm, found a Tupperware for the batter and cleaned up after their breakfast. Done, he headed into the guest room. He'd have to go shopping. There wasn't a thing to read. He looked in the drawers, figuring he should also get some clothes while he was out, no longer willing to make do with just a suitcase's worth. It made laundry too annoying.

Quickly Illya realized there was more there than what Napoleon had shown up with when he'd finally came with the antidote. Illya walked over to the closet, and found more clothes, clothes he recognized. He sat on the bed. Illya noticed the boxes in the corner. He got up and crossed to them.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Napoleon stood at his door with a small bag of groceries, knowing that he couldn't get used to this, having Illya to come home to. This was just a special boon, a reprieve. He'd gotten his partner back, a largess beyond measure. Soon they'd be back to their deception. He could be excused from dating while Illya was his guest.

"I'm not your doorman." Illya grabbed the bag and turned, carrying it into the kitchen.

Napoleon stepped inside his apartment and locked up. Offense signaled defense. "Good day?" Coming back from the dead wouldn't be all roses. He accepted the signal for space.

Illya didn't answer, just finished stowing the groceries and folded the sack after rolling over the top.

"Dinner in two hours?" Napoleon judged the nod as friendly. He headed to his drink cabinet and poured himself a scotch. Ignoring Illya was difficult, it went against his every instinct not to cater or entertain. Resisting that impulse was vital. His partner was in no mood to be magnanimous.

He glanced over as Illya settled at the other end of the sofa. Thick book and his thicker glasses. Napoleon had once quipped "Garbo" to his partner, on Illya donning the protective coloring against yet another desirable woman. That had been before.

He wondered how tonight would go. Anticipation could be its own reward with women, as games meant more when failure was a real possibility. Illya wasn't a game.

Napoleon got up and headed into the kitchen, shedding his jacket over a chair and taking off his holster. He started making dinner, resisting looking over to Illya. Their arrangement had settled into clear rules prior to Capsule G. Now those walls were rubble in their way.

"Smells good."

Napoleon startled, Illya's breath coming past his ear. Illya's hands touched him, as if to catch a stumble.

"You kept everything." Illya kissed Napoleon on the nape and then stepped away. He was hungry.

"Wasn't much." Napoleon looked over. His partner had his glasses off, explaining the distance between them as focal length. Napoleon turned back to his cooking.

"We can't go back." Illya had had much of the day to think. Napoleon hadn't harbored any thoughts he'd survived, the report was clear and surprisingly free of correction tape. And still, those boxes. "We'll have to go forward." He'd have to change, stop paring their relationship to scant bones. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin faced his fears.

Napoleon smiled. They were a force together. He reached out and pulled Illya over in front of him. "You stir." Napoleon indulged himself, lightly. All too soon their meal was ready and they worked together to get it onto the table.

They fell into conversation, mostly Napoleon recounting the light gossip from HQ, work but not work. Agents lived such different lives than the support staff, their dramas were exotic. He doubted he'd handle the obverse as well as Mandy had managed her inadvertent Affair.

"She's gotten engaged, Mandy Stevenson, translator? Actually, you'll get to know the groom, he'll be transferring up from Belo Horizonte."

"Mandy finally accepted one of Mr. Waverly's 'opportunities'?" As he'd forget any part of that affair, that placed the information he'd brought back in harm's way with one adventure seeker between the microdot and Victor Gervais.

"He's a biochemist."

Illya smiled. "What are you getting the lucky couple? You better eat in the commissary for awhile." He just might need to invent a few Romany proverbs in defense of his money. He patted Napoleon's arm as he got up, then bussed the table of their dishes. Illya turned on the tap and squirted in the soap. He unbuckled his holster and pulled off his turtleneck. Illya made quick work of their plates and silver, then the pots.

Napoleon pulled out a linen towel to dry, putting things away as he went. He wished he could keep Illya. "You wash dishes like that often?"

Illya halted at the statement then noticed his partner's look at his chest. "When I've been wearing a turtleneck." He gave the sink a wipe with the dishrag, rinsed and wrung it out, then dried his hands. He pulled his shirt back on. "Can't roll up the sleeves without stretching out the cuffs."

His practical Russian. Napoleon filed the tidbit away. "How was your day?"

No time like the present. "I'm more interested in how the evening will be." He leaned in for a slow kiss. He let it deepen, pulling back once he started to lose himself in Napoleon's mouth.

Napoleon pursued. He placed his hands on Illya's waist, holding them apart. He felt Illya's tension, and sought to soothe him, acclimate him to a slower pace than had been their want. Napoleon had long wanted to take his time with Illya. He moved them to the couch.

Illya fought the impulse to take control. He instead snicked open one of Napoleon's buttons, then dragged his finger over the knit revealed. Illya rubbed one hand over Napoleon's hair, then ruffled the other side.

Napoleon cocked his head, wondering at Illya. He hadn't forgotten the morning after the aftermath of the Bomb Me Deadly Affair. He returned the kiss that Illya landed during his distraction, then nipped the heel of his hand. He'd prefer his bed as the venue, but Illya had fewer advantages tactically on the couch.

Illya bit back affront as Napoleon's hands halted their ministrations. He moaned as one found his foot. That shouldn't feel so good. How had Napoleon thought to do it? Only hazily did he notice the removal of his sock.

Napoleon lavished attention on the one foot, making sure not to tickle. Then he focused on Illya's other foot. He wished he had more bare flesh within reach. At least Illya was flexible. He leaned over and kissed Illya on the cheek, scattering his kisses as Illya tried to mate their lips.

Illya found himself pulled up and he wrapped himself around Napoleon. He moved like a sine-wave. He let himself be guided into the bedroom, warm hands holding his ass. Plundering Napoleon's mouth held his attention.

Napoleon worked at his cuffs and then the buttons of his shirt. He shed his, then pulled Illya's turtleneck off. He dropped, unfastening Illya's pants. Pushing the fabric away he nuzzled Illya before kissing, licking and finally wrapping his lips around Illya's cockhead. He chuckled throatily as Illya's hands clamped onto his head.

Illya looked down and then at the wall before closing his eyes. The vision of Napoleon played out inside his eyelids. He strained not to move, to give Napoleon free reign. Standing was difficult enough.

Napoleon wasn't doing anything complicated. There would be time for that later, when humor could smooth over false steps. New skills always held that promise. Now was a moment for action, to move past their arrangement. He could feel Illya's tension, smell his excitement. He played his partner by ear, repeating those licks and sucks that elicited the correct mood.

Napoleon worked his fly open, let Illya slip from his mouth, kissed the hard length and stood. Illya pulled him forward hard into a furious kiss. Napoleon's undershirt was pulled from him roughly and his slacks pushed down. He shook them free and stepped out, sliding behind Illya, kissing where neck joined shoulder, nape, behind Illya's ears.

Illya clutched his partner's hands and twisted within the circle of Napoleon's arms. They were close to completion. Illya dragged them into bed. Napoleon opened the drawer and quickly prepared him. Illya pulled his knees up, chivvying Napoleon's thighs forward and down.

Napoleon sank into Illya, pulled back and shot back home in one long slide. He breathed heavily. He brushed his face against Illya, flying on instinct. He broke as Illya clenched hard, and spilled deep into his lover.

Illya opened his eyes a slit. He let them shut again. Napoleon was heavy, still in his ass. Illya wrapped his legs tighter, egging an echo of their lovemaking. He opened his eye again. Blurry as he was, it was a good look for Napoleon. Illya drifted to sleep.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Napoleon looked down at his Walther, and at Illya's. He'd slipped out of bed early this morning, fighting for a modicum of distance. This was like a splash of cold water followed by jumper cables. He didn't make mistakes like this, and Illya certainly didn't. Thoughts of making breakfast disappeared.

"Napoleon--" Illya halted, able to make out their Specials in the kitchen. He squared his shoulders within his borrowed robe. He approached, pocketing his weapon. He got out a skillet, setting it on the stove and opened the refrigerator. He pulled the seal off the Tupperware, splashed in a little water from the tap, replaced the seal and shook.

Napoleon looked at Illya, then picked up his Special. Earlier he'd not wanted to wake Illya, so now he headed for a shower, shaved, and got dressed. This had never happened during their arrangement. Section 2 agents were married to their pistols, divorced only by death. Deaths often caused by the failure of one or the other.

He came back into the living room. His breath caught on seeing Illya in his robe, hair damp. He'd not noticed before. Napoleon quashed his digression, too close to what had caused this situation. They were agents. Everything else came third.

"You're not alone in this." Illya flippered a set of pancakes out and poured a new one. "Don't say it."

Napoleon bit down, realizing just what he had been about to say. "There really is a PSI corps?" From time to time rather outré beliefs of the CIA came to light. Naturally, the CIA held most of them about the Soviet's alphabet soup. Illya scowled at him, a glint of humor in his eyes. Napoleon took up his holster, shrugging into it, and returned his Walther to its place.

Illya turned off the stove and put the two plates onto the table. If he needed more breakfast he could always eat after Napoleon left. His partner wasn't likely to be very hungry. He sat down and started in. There was nothing Napoleon would be willing to hear. Foolish as it was, they had done stupider things, and likely in the future would do things yet more foolish. Being agents wasn't an especially rational vocation.

He kept from smiling at the picture Napoleon made, black holster against white shirt, hair not yet Brylcremed, eating pancakes. Normally, Napoleon didn't rig until he was ready to put on his jacket and rarely shed his jacket unless he could also lose his holster. The hair likely was a sop for his delectation, unconscious or otherwise, with the holster penitence.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Illya climbed the cable up the side of the remote castle. Napoleon had entered with the caterer's crew hours earlier. He could understand the local language, and if necessary respond in Italian. Of the two of them, his partner blended in better with the natives.

Illya reached the ledge and retracted the cable. Worming up through a murder hole designed for boiling oil took some doing but he accomplished it. He looked down at the rocks below, then at the small room he was in. Full of crates and boxes.

Unlike at some installations, the guards weren't mere thugs. Their patrols weren't perfectly timed, and they interlocked so taking out a guard was quickly noticed.  
Their failing was they'd been brought in after deliveries had started. They didn't know the site intimately.

Illya dusted off his slacks, wiped off his face and pulled off his hat. He donned the pale domino mask. He would mix in with the guests, the party now in full swing. Despite the suddenness of the assignment it was good to be back to work. He slipped out of the room, making his way out of quiet corridors.

He plucked a glass off a server's tray, sipping as if he'd been here for hours. The plan was simple. Napoleon would secure the target, pass it to Illya, and each would go their separate ways according to their covers. As plans went, it was good. Too bad he knew there would be complications.

They didn't know what the target was. If need be, they'd use the caterers' truck. He wondered how Napoleon had done so far. He settled into his role, aware in case his supply of 'party favors' were needed.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They'd hardly finished the Castle Affair before being assigned here. Napoleon watched his partner dragged in, unable to do anything but stay in his role. This whole affair hadn't gone according to plan. The party's centerpiece was a collection of feted jewels to be auctioned. The temptation to THRUSH was judged to be too much. Illya was to replace them, so they couldn't bankroll another scheme for world domination.

THRUSH had already exchanged the jewels, sparkle disguising explosives and gas. They were looking to sell off the guests to the highest bidders. If Illya hadn't been delayed by a malfunctioning elevator, he'd have been the locus when THRUSH detonated the charges.

Illya was hoisted onto the bridge railing, his false eyebrows ruffled by the wind. The disguise might buy them some time. Then his partner was being forced off the bridge, and Napoleon pushed the woman next to him face first against his shoulder. He couldn't try ripping THRUSH apart with his arms full. He'd have to act before they figured out he wasn't an industrialist.

Fortune, having failed him once was uncommonly obliging the rest of the night. Bitch. Distractions came as he needed them, allowing him to siphon off those guests THRUSH would dismiss as cheap goods and not hesitate to use as examples. He'd wager a couple million a head would make THRUSH operatives think twice about inflicting lasting harm.

Of course, he'd forgotten about himself. His cover had held, amazingly considering the photos of himself he knew circulated within THRUSH. They'd yet to realize they'd been had, which meant he couldn't bait them with himself as a prize.

All hell broke loose. It was the 1812 overture in thermite. It was the opening he needed to headbutt his would-be torturer, grab a serving tray to jab into the stomach of the torturer's assistant, before cutting his hands free. After that everything happened very quickly, U.N.C.L.E. agents cutting THRUSH from the innocents. The threat gone, he stood lost and bereft.

Napoleon winced at the dampened napkin applied to his brow. Champagne stung. He batted the Samaritan's hand and grabbed his wrist.

"Wouldn't do to spoil that shirt." Illya grinned, then pulled Napoleon out of the milling guests. He held on when Napoleon hugged him tight.

Napoleon felt the wince and pulled back.

"Some bruising from the safety harness." Illya's blood burned at the promising look Napoleon gave him. The expression disappeared in an instant, and Illya strode out to determine what they needed to wrap up before they could go.

Hours later they entered the hotel room. Napoleon nudged Illya towards the en suite. "Get cleaned up." Napoleon fell to doing the security sweep. Illya halted for a moment, then headed for the bathroom which he searched before getting into the shower. The hot water felt good. He looked down at his leg. Napoleon would think he needed to see a doctor. The equipment had done its job, though it could do with some refinements. The attachment device was awkward as well. He soaped and lathered, rinsed and turned off the tap as he got out.

Into a waiting towel. They exchanged glances expressing the all clear for bugs and other devices. "Get a shower." He slipped out of Napoleon's hands and the bathroom. He headed for the laid-out first-aid kit.

"Let me help you with that." Napoleon came out in the hotel robe, tossing down the laundry bag. He crouched down, looking at the friction burn. It ran up Illya's calf, the back of his thigh and bisected the pale swell of his ass. Napoleon took the tube of ointment, applied the gel to his finger and his finger along the new line on Illya's body. He cut gauze and tape for the worst spots. Done, he kissed the back of Illya's other knee before standing. He checked Illya's ribs, accepting they were merely tender, though 'ribs' here was a euphemism. He'd let Illya wait until they were back in New York to see Medical.

Illya pulled Napoleon to him so their foreheads touched, before kissing him. Napoleon fitted them together, hands carefully placed. The jolt when the cable had snapped taut still vibrated through his whole body. Good thing he had a hot water bottle. "Bed."

Napoleon kissed his partner on the nose before turning down the bed. He eased Illya in on his good side, tucking their weapons under the pillows before tossing his robe onto the foot of the bed and crawling in against Illya. He kissed demandingly, gripped hard at spots uninjured, careful of the damage sustained. Napoleon lost himself in trying to blot out Illya falling, to sear his lover's survival into himself. He slipped a hand between them, rushing them to release.

He rallied muzzily as Illya stretched over him. He latched onto the relocation of their respective weapons as his partner half sprawled. He kissed Illya lightly. Sleep beckoned.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Illya did find an apartment despite the nearly back to back affairs. Unfurnished, in a building without an elevator, even for freight. He was able to convince Mr. Waverly that the surveillance team making sure THRUSH didn't leave him any housewarming gifts would be less obvious if they went in as painters. Several of them were ready for undercover work. It was good to be the CEA's partner.

Finding furniture between affairs was slow, and led to several more nights at Napoleon's place. Illya sat down on the wicker couch, his security sweep complete. The delivery of his bed was the reason for the latest search for bugs. He'd return the cot to central stores.

He thought fondly of the night he'd gone over to Napoleon's for a book, thinking to bring it back. He'd had to go to HQ straight from there, though not in the clothes he'd arrived in. His clothes, laundered by Napoleon's service. It had been just shy of distracting. Nice.

They'd have to take a breather. There were assumptions to foster, not the least of which was the question of how he suffered Napoleon. It was useful for people to be distracted by surface impressions. Being underestimated was, along with excellent preparation, the foundation of Napoleon's luck.

That he would, after enforced proximity, want some distance from his partner fed into his mystique. Cold and precise. He preferred keeping people at more than arm's length, where he could see their faces without his glasses. An agent did need a boundary, and in that way the sudden return to work had been useful.

Napoleon had always been within his boundaries. Napoleon had seen through him and walked right in, confusing everyone except Mr. Waverly. Illya realized they had achieved through divergent means the same distance from others. Had that been why Napoleon had reached out to him, recognition?

Or it could have been his love of a challenge. It worked out the same, a partnership that was stronger than the sum of its parts. A partnership that was its own reward.


End file.
